


I Fall Apart With All My Heart

by Swyfte



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Some Plot, just some smut and angst, not really - Freeform, pre to post ACOWAR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 13:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11253615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swyfte/pseuds/Swyfte
Summary: “Are you coming over here to cheer me up, Nesta?” His voice is rough, laced with some ardent edge. Typical male. Her breath catches, just the slightest hitch, but it sets his smirk aflame. “Fae are much better at anything you can think up,” he whispers; they are inches from each other now. She has moved without a thought, lured, baited and hooked. Nesta feels a snarl gracing the corners of her lips.“Whatever you can do, I can do better,” she says, meeting his gaze, that glazed darkness. “Fae or no.” It’s not a dangerous line to toe.Based on my conclusion that something DEFINITELY happened between Nesta and Cassian after ACOMAF finished. Contains some spoilers for ACOWAR.





	I Fall Apart With All My Heart

She retreats. It’s nothing new; she is basically shell upon shell, layers of isolation and careful distance. It’s a coping mechanism, and not one that particularly endears her to anybody, let alone her family. Nesta has always figured it’s easier this way; in the volatile, unstable stasis that perpetuates their lives, attachments are all too simple to forge. The opposite, the breaking of them, is not the same truth.

Nesta hides in her silken room; even her rich childhood and recent inheritance could not have prepared her for such a lavish suite. The delicate arches of the four-poster bed, sleek sheets never slept in, marble and tile and luxury. She wants to burn it all to the ground. It’s too much for her screaming new senses; overwhelming in its opulence. Even now she can feel the elongated points of her ears; she’d consider them practically demonic, if she held any stock in those kinds of notions. The Cauldron swamped her, stripped her, and spat her back out as something new. Something alien. More. And Nesta was plenty enough beforehand.

She thinks, hollowly, of Elain. Her sister has been changed too, forced into a mould she doesn’t quite fit. Nesta would be worried, but she can hear her heartbeat, mere rooms away, solid and peaceful. Elain must be sleeping, she’s already deduced; even if she wasn’t, Nesta’s misery wants no company. She curls into a tighter ball on the plush sheets, as though she can compress herself back into her old form. It’s gone, she knows, shredded into scraps between her infallible bones, impeccable skin and the power she took. Nesta knows she holds something, something that was not supposed to be hers; she stole it anyway, and has no intentions of returning it.

Soft footsteps ring in the hallway. They pulsate in her ears, heralding the arrival of someone just as sculpted and Fae as her. She smells the blood before the rest of his scent hits her; she never knew it could be so bitter, that it reeked like metal, that pain had a stench. Nesta wrinkles her nose. Surely he should be in an infirmary somewhere, being doted on and fussed over- it’s only been five days, gods dammit- but he’s here. Plaguing her, like it’s his honour-bound duty. If it is, she’ll admit he’s damned good at his job. He pauses outside her door, practically reeking of his own uncertainty. There’s a rustle of fabric as he lifts his hand to knock- she won’t allow him the dignity.

“Come in before you collapse,” she snaps, most of her arbitrary fire smothered. Nesta may be cruel, but she can’t bring herself to tear down a male who’s only just found his feet again.

The door swings open with a slow reluctance, and there he is, pale and shadowed in the unveiling. Cassian. His wings, tattered and ruined, are bound tightly behind him with thick white bandages. Whatever magic they possess has stopped the worst of the bleeding, and perhaps even has begun to heal it in places, but it will still be days before they regain even a scrap of their former glory. If that happens at all. He must be in agony; some of it shows on his face in the pained curl of his lip and the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.  
“Nice of you to invite me in like this,” he says, smirking as he saunters into the room. Despite all appearances, he doesn’t appear to be about to black out on her lovely veneered floor. The male leans against the tall oak dresser positioned ostentatiously against one wall with barely more than a wince.

“I would have been here sooner,” he says, looking profoundly apologetic. Nesta is perplexed. “I’m sorry.”

“Excuse me? Your wings were nearly shredded from your body, but you want to apologise for not stalking me?” Nesta snorts. She will never understand these people, but at least the rest of them are politely avoiding her. They hadn’t, at first, she’d cowed Rhysand with a few barbed words to stop his intensive meddling. She’d enjoyed that.

Cassian scuffs a slippered foot against the floor. All his smug cockiness has melted away, but she can see it still, a second skin that taunts her. Perhaps he’s luring her, baiting her, springing a trap as he’s so apt to do. She refuses to fall for it, but it’s simply a new habit for them- mocking and teasing and eventual arguments. They barely know each other, but they have arrived at this normality. Nesta rolls her eyes; he’s barely out of the sick bay and he’s already probing her for an outburst.

“I made you a promise,” he says slowly, not meeting her eyes. “To protect you and your people. I failed you. And...and I think I may never be able to walk the battlefield again as I did all those years ago.”

“You did everything you could to fulfill your promise,” Nesta replies, wondering at the odd gentle tone coming out of her mouth. She remembers seeing him broken upon the ground, shattered and rent apart; even then defeat had not really graced his eyes. She had caught a glimpse of him, as they flung her kicking and screaming into the hideous Cauldron; he lay, arm outstretched, straining to cross that unbreachable distance. “But you will heal, Cassian, make no mistake. You’ll be on that battlefield, championing my people, because you promised.” He won’t rest until he’s made good on his word, because that’s all a faerie really had. Their promises. Their vows.

Cassian shrugs, looking uncharacteristically morose. “What if my wings never heal, Nesta? They’re as much a part of me as an arm or leg. What do you suppose I do then?”

Nesta unfurls, once again feeling the strangeness of her elongated limbs. Perhaps she’s only been stewing in her own anguish, and she might be a hypocrite, but she won’t let Cassian do the same. Especially not in her own private rooms. Cassian’s eyes rake her new form, some appreciative glint in his dark eyes. Pig she thinks, and he already knows it. He sways a few inches closer, running his tongue over his lower lip.

“Are you coming over here to cheer me up, Nesta?” His voice is rough, laced with some ardent edge. Typical male. Her breath catches, just the slightest hitch, but it sets his smirk aflame. “Fae are much better at anything you can think up,” he whispers; they are inches from each other now. She has moved without a thought, lured, baited and hooked. Nesta feels a snarl gracing the corners of her lips.

“Whatever you can do, I can do better,” she says, meeting his gaze, that glazed darkness. “Fae or no.” It’s not a dangerous line to toe, but it’s an inconvenient one. They’ll have to face each other day after day, look each other in the eye, treat them with the courtesy of a comrade. Well. The latter was never likely, anyway.

“That’s where you’re going to have to prove me wrong, sweetheart,” Cassian retorts. There’s a sweetness to his breath, and that crisp undertone of arrogance has returned. Heat radiates off him in frenetic waves and she, harsh new angles and abrasive edges, is the shore. She wonders what they’re doing, what rabbit hole they’ve chosen to descend; yet, stupidity aside, she could never resist a challenge. She tilts her chin, parts her lips- it’s an offering, a dare.

It’s their fatal flaw, both of them; defeat will never be an option.

It’s a soft sort of collision; Nesta may be ruthless, but never sadistic. Her hands go to her hips the instant his find her shoulders, already curved to meet him. Their lips follow and Nesta feels, innately, that this should be how things are done. She’s never taken a lover, not really, and doesn’t mind that Cassian will be the first. He cradles her head in his hand; their heartbeats are a tangled symphony in her ears. He presses down on her; she presses back with ardour, running her hands over the small of his back, every heated inch of coiled muscle. Cassian growls, in the back of his throat- purely feral, it blazes through her nerves. A heavy flash of pleasure roars deep in her stomach, and she thinks she might snarl right back.

Nesta backs away until the sleek edge of her bed hits her thighs. Cassian breathes rapidly, pinning her in place with his scorching dark eyes. A wicked smile splits his lips, and she wishes she could see his wings, the full and glorious sum of him. Nesta is wearing a thin slip of silk, midnight blue and delightfully sheer in places. Raising her arms, she slides it over her body. She knows what Cassian sees; the Fae perfection, almost harsh and clinical in its absolution. Her skin is a stark, snowy white, lean and smooth; her breasts are full and round, a phenomenon her human body had never produced. Nesta would be embarrassed to stand before Cassian in anything but this form; as it is, it’s not really hers, and what he thinks about it matters not in the least.

Regally, she sits down, crossing her legs in a pantomime of refinement. “Take off your clothes,” she commands. The bandages aren’t ideal, but she’ll have to work her way around them. Cassian stares for a heavy, fervent moment- his eyes are still on her face, and she’s not sure whether this is a compliment or an insult- and for a second she thinks he’ll refuse, that he’ll walk away and leave her wanton and wanting. Would that not be the best outcome?

His stare is so deep and unending she nearly misses the movement of his hands as they go to his belt. Nesta’s mouth goes dry; there’s the pliant click of metal against metal, the cacophony of material slipping across skin, and his pants are gone, pooled around his ankles and kicked away in a mere heartbeat. His shoes, next, and the thin shirt that covers his bandages. Hints of golden skin shine through, eons of polished muscle and ethereal perfection. Cassian’s black hair falls into his eyes, and the faint stubble on his face gleams in the light. The very sight of him is a sin. Nesta will damn herself, again and again, just to drink him in. Silk briefs remain, a mockery of modesty, the only barrier between Nesta and complete condemnation. It cannot fall away fast enough.

Nesta crooks a finger, beckoning him as a croon rises from her throat. He’s barely touched her, and already she’s singing for him. Cassian takes small steps, as though she’s reeling him in. He halts in front of her, swaying a little, and she puts a hand on his stomach to steady him. Muscles twitch beneath her fingers. Her hand slips southward, and his breath hitches, though she stops at the waistband of his boxers.

“Do you always tease your prey this much?” he grunts. There’s no malice in his voice, just lust and the barest whisper of impatience. He doesn’t know it, but this is the threshold- the last vestige of her life to disappear, the final remainder of both her humanity and innocence. The teasing is just a delightful bonus. Nesta drags her fingernails across his lower abdomen, examining the shudder that runs through him. She’s always known there to be a certain type of power- in influence, in status- but this is a new kind, one she has not thought to encounter before. It thrills her. With a savage grin, she slips the undergarment down his legs and, immediately, forgets that an inch of it ever existed.

The hard length of him sways before her, swollen, a beseeching shade of carnal-crimson. She reaches out a curious hand to touch him; he is silk and steel, velveteen, erotic. Cassian closes his eyes, raggedly exhaling. Her own need is acute, throbbing at the heart of her, although the entire process is yet unclear to her; tantalisingly close, waiting out of reach. Her ministrations are almost clinical, but Cassian seems to enjoy it nonetheless. Softs sounds fall from his lips, the most intimate sighs to ever grace her ears. She is taken aback when he stops her with a gentle pressure on her wrist. 

“I don’t intend to embarrass myself like a teenager at his first touch,” he murmurs, though this means nothing to Nesta. Softly, he pushes her back against the bed, kneeling between her legs. She’s so open, so vulnerable, every sense so painfully alert. His thumb slips between her legs, brushing against the very core of her, the smell of her desire so very evident in the air. “Is this okay?” he asks, repeating the motion in a slick glide. The sensation is divine, and Nesta wonders why she hadn’t prepositioned Cassian earlier.

“Fuck, yes, Cassian.” Her voice trails off, and she’s disgusted by the pathetic whine she’s making, but Cassian is damned good at this too. He pushes her back further, until her head rests against the pillows. His thumb is gone, and in the instance she opens her mouth to complain, he replaces it with his mouth. Nesta fists her hands in his unruly hair; she must look the absolute picture of wanton desperation, purring and twisting beneath him, and he the object of carnal selflessness, licking and nipping and ignoring the agony of his wounds.  
“I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I met you. So fierce, so mortal…” His breath washes against her; even from here, she can see his signature smirk, buried between her legs. “You didn’t disappoint, Nesta.”

“Cassian,” she murmurs, grasping her shoulders. He surges up against her, pressing his mouth against hers. Nesta can taste herself on his lips, but this does not disturb her. She hooks a pale leg over his hip; he is so close. This last remnant will finally be taken from her, and she can begin completely, wholly anew. “Cassian,” she says again, demanding. She reaches between them when he makes no move, grasping him as he moans- a sound she treasures, and promises to remember- and then he is inside her. Inside her. It is completion and pain, a faint ache, as though her body knows one more thing is being taken from it. But Nesta has never been one to bow to her pain.

He kisses her softly, nuzzling her cheek, her neck. She grips his shoulder, rolling her hips against his; small sounds fill the air, entwined as they are. Cassian sets a slow, reverent pace, face hidden against her moon-white throat. A residual feeling of rightness descends over her, fueling the fire in her belly. Cassian sounds positively primitive, muffling moans against her collarbone, but she can’t say she sounds any better. The ache diminishes with every thrust; she walks along a great precipice, and something is waiting for her on the other side, should she happen to fall. Nesta is so very, very tempted.

“I’m gonna...Nesta,” Cassian says, lifting his face for a moment. He is lit from within, incandescent. The male grunts, delving harder, deeper; she decides to fall, in that moment. Nesta is overcome, resounding with waves of of some unknown cataclysmic satisfaction. A long sigh escapes her lips, the tamest of the sounds she’s made tonight. Her eyes flutter closed; it had been so good to forget, and Hybern’s taint feels diminished somehow, chased from her pores. Her breathes still come heavily, and it is all she can do to just lie there, recovering some semblance of herself. When she opens her eyes, Cassian is staring at her.

There’s a minute trace of blood on the sheets, all her immortal body will yield. She feels vaguely sore, but Nesta expected much worse. “Mhmm,” she says; the sheets will need to be washed- she doesn’t want to explain to Rhysand where that stain came from- and she will need to clean herself as well, though a bath is out of the question-

“It was your first time?” Cassian asks, deceptively quiet. “You’ve never done this before?”

Nesta pushes herself onto her elbows. “No. Why would I? There’s not exactly a queue lining up for Nesta Archeron back home.”

Cassian stands, so swiftly she almost misses the movement. He slips his pants over his hips in a savagely quick motion; he seems tense, upset for some inexplicable reason. “You didn’t think to tell me?” he snaps, backing towards the door. “Do you think I’d want your first time to be some pity fuck?” He slams his fist into the stone-hewn wall beside the doorway. Before she can breath a word, he disappears, leaving a pale indent of his knuckles in the smooth marble. Nesta slouches against the plush mattress in her room of borrowed things.

Well, fuck.

 

  
At first she can’t work out who’s ignoring who. There’s more to it than that, of course there is; they’ve got a war to plan, and Nesta is but one tiny name on Cassian’s ever-growing list of problems to fix. His distance might be cautious and angry, sure, but Cassian has larger things to worry about- impending doom and the ruination of war, and all that. So Nesta decides she must ignore him. At first, she sticks to her room, sorting through yards of silk and cotton. 

As far as hideouts go, it’s far too obvious. Nesta only has to look at the bed for the memories to again crash back over her; his scent and his sweat and the ecstasy they shared. She often wonders if he didn’t enjoy it- shouldn’t all males like a romp in the sheets as much as the next one, regardless of the situation at hand? A pity fuck. The words have carved a hollow space inside her chest. As if that was all there was to it, as though it meant nothing more to him than a fleeting distraction. She chose him, only for Cassian to turn around and throw it into her face. She has to avoid him; it’s merely self-preservation, a secure detachment. Nesta isn’t sure what she’ll do when she sees him again, but she hopes it won’t be for centuries. Eons.

Elain is her next choice, but that’s fairly obvious as well. There’s only so much Nesta can do in there- coax her sister to eat, to get dressed, to appear-in any manner possible- somewhat alive. The Cauldron took something from Elain; it is not merely her mortality that has been prised away, but some irremediable element; her sunshine and her smiles. While Nesta lurks inside her shell, she’s not sure anything remains in Elain’s. Made, and unmade. Her hatred cannot grow any stronger; she will gut the King of Hybern and feed his own entrails down his vile throat for what he’s done.  
One morning, she finds Cassian’s scent in Elaine's room, and she can’t stay there any longer. By this point, she’s already found the library, and it’s foolproof. Cassian would never dare venture into the venue of all things learning and scholarly. Nesta reads volume after volume on Fae histories, folklore and traditions. Ignorance will do her no good now that she’s one of them. There are sporadic references to the Cauldron, but nothing of significance, nothing on the nature of Making and Unmaking. She finds no clues, no hints at a solution. Nesta will fix herself, and her sister. It may take years, but this body still does not feel like it belongs to her. It was a cruel gift, one that may be taken back at any minute. Nesta hasn’t looked into a mirror for days.

She knows she’s changed, and she needs no further proof of that. It’s ludicrous, but once she sees her reflection she knows there will be no escape, no way to reverse the damage that’s been wrought. Sometimes she catches a barest hint of her reflection in the windows, a ghost in the glass. Nesta looks away with haste. The thing that stares back is too much to bear.

Did Feyre feel the same? Nesta knows she didn’t; her sister took to every with ease, and now, it’s like she was born into the skin of a Fae. She doesn’t worry for her sister. Feyre has always been the one with a knack for survival, and Nesta has a feeling Rhys would rent apart the horizons before he let anything happen to his mate. The word is still odd to Nesta- mate. It’s a foreign concept. She’s not sure she could handle such an intrinsic bond with someone, all the while her senses screamed and the smallest of sounds assail her ears. She should ask someone- was this normal? Would it ever go away? But she had her pride to think about, and it was the only thing she had left.

Her pride. Nesta snorts. It’s a hollow, fickle thing, but as much has been true for a long while.

Perhaps day by day, she feels her senses desist- clothes are more bearable, taste does not assault her. Scent becomes her most useful tool, but all of these can still overwhelm her. It’s her hearing that remains painfully acute. She can hear the wings of a moth in the next room, the footfalls of a Fae dozens of yards away. Nesta knows the tempo that belongs to Cassian, but she hasn’t heard it for days. Out training, she supposed, or whatever Commanders occupy their time with. That’s why she falls asleep in the library, embracing her armfuls of books; there’s no risk, no vulnerability. The House of Wind feels positively deserted.

The room is dark, lit by a single stuttering candle. Nesta devours a thick, dusty tome, scanning the rows of meticulous words for an answer, any answer at all. The Cauldron is a heavy staccato beat in her ears, a repetitive kind of mantra. Her fingers are black with ink. She’s tired, of this search for a cure, this fruitless exhausting quest.

“Studying hard, Nesta?”

It’s him. The cadence of his voice is both a balm and a vexation. She feels a thrill, deep inside her, hiding in reclusive coils. Damn it. Damn him. 

“The concept’s not a difficult one to grasp, Cassian. It doesn’t even require much thinking.” She doesn’t turn around- her eyes are fixated firmly on a singular line. It must be noted that Prythian was previously occupied by...occupied by older immortal beings...previously occupied by….

“Wouldn’t you rather study something else?” His voice is so low. It’s practically a growl. She’s inflamed, a creature of incessant need- for some reason, she should deny him, shouldn’t succumb to his dangerous advances...but the reason escapes her, lost in the sudden fog that’s overcome her mind.

“Like what?” she asks blandly; indifferent, a pillar of stone, a carving of ice… Even her best intentions are not infallible. He stands behind her, radiating a dark intensity, and his scent is all she can smell; raw, unadulterated lust.

“Something much, much more enjoyable…” he murmurs, clasping her by the shoulders, drawing her out of her seat, turning her to face him. Nesta stares at the hollow of his throat, twitching with his every uneven breath. She’s gone, she’s all but disappeared. All her reasoning, her logic, has thrown itself off the closest balcony. Nesta latches onto his pulse point with a snarl; she will mark him, claim him, and then he cannot deny her. His wings flare wide behind them, a masterpiece of shadows and membrane. His hips jut against hers. In a gyre of swift movement, he picks her up and pins her against a nearby row of shelving.  
“What do you want, Nesta?” he asks, nipping at the snowy skin of her throat.

“You,” she moans, wrapping her legs around his waist. He enters her without ceremony, pushing into her with raw desperate need. Her eyes flutter closed, and she leans her head against his steady shoulder, mingling her own ragged breaths with his. Animalistic noises of flesh against flesh fill the room; hard against her spine are the unyielding lines of ancient books, pressing subtle indents into her lower back. She never wants to do anything else- it’s only this, this crude unrelenting coupling, the only thing that can complete her. She feels at ease, the pleasure beating down her pain…

“Look at me,” Cassian grunts, thrusting ever deeper. “Look at me Nesta.”

She does as he says, unconventionally compliant. His eyes are twin coals in the semi-darkness, glowing in tune to the meek flickers of the sole candle. He palms her breast in one hand, biting his own lip as his does so.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he gasps, nearing that soaring, unsteady edge. “Don’t you dare.”

She pins her gaze to his face- she’ll do anything he asks, she’d be a fool to pretend she wouldn’t. The air reeks of sex. She’s almost there; there’s a discordant jarring burst of delirium, a pit rising up to swallow her, drowning her in its throes. She does as he says; she doesn’t dare close her eyes. She sees him.

Nesta awakes with a gasp. The vivid dream is still something fresher than a memory; already, hot shame is coursing through her. She hates those dreams. Nesta, who is tethered to control, finds it paramount and unequaled, discovers she has no power in her sleep. She controls nothing about them...and the fact that it was Cassian makes it ten times worse. Fucking Cassian. Waking or sleeping, her mind still won’t leave him alone.

She sits up slowly, swallowing a groan at all her various aches. She deserves it for falling asleep in a rickety armchair with mounds of books. Sunlight streams merrily through the windows; the air is pleasantly, politely warm. It dawns on her then, as she shakes the soreness from her arms, that she is not alone.

“Sweet dreams?” Cassian asks, crossing the room in three sweeping strides. His wings trail behind him. Scarred, battered, but undeniably healed. Nesta bares her teeth at him; his audacity alone is enough to drive her to madness.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she replies coolly, glancing at the window with faint indifference. Regaining some semblance of her aloof airs, she turns back to him, raising a delicate eyebrow. “You look well, Commander. Perhaps a pity fuck was just what you needed after all.” There she goes again, letting the words trip off her tongue, delighting in their wicked sweetness. Maybe she’ll regret it later. Nesta doesn’t miss the visible twitch in his jaw and the irritated look he throws her.

“If you’re going to make it hard, Nesta, I may as well walk out that door right now.”

She doesn’t reply, but the look in her eyes is clear. Why don’t you? she asks, wanting no answer. Go on, flee again.

“I have come to apologise for my actions,” he says haltingly; making amends must be new to him. “I was inappropriate; I imposed on your boundaries. I should not...I shouldn’t have come to your room, or kissed you, or bedded you. It was a mistake. I would undo it if I could, Nesta. I’m sorry.”

“You regret it?” Nesta asks, the hollow space in her chest filling quickly with some bitter ache. “All of it?”

“Every second, Nesta. And I’m sorry I left you like I did, and let you think that you were in the wrong. I only hope that one day you can...come to forgive me.”

Nesta stares at him dully; she supposes he thinks she regrets the whole thing, too, or else he just doesn’t care. He’s here, repenting for the sake of his inner moral code. Where were his ethics when he taunted her, stripped for her, fucked her senseless into expensive silk sheets? The roaring in her ears, for once, is not some auditory assault from the outside world.

“Things are very volatile at the moment, not that I have to tell you that. I think it’s best that we just put this all behind us.” He looks so earnest, as though he’s willing her to understand. Still, he already looks like he’s won this battle.

“And forget it ever happened?” she says, toneless. She’s always had a mask- a cold, lethal thing- and its power has only amplified in her new immortal state. There was a time when she had thought she’d no longer need it around Cassian. That idea died viciously quick. Nesta welcomes her mask back like an old friend.

“Exactly,” Cassian replies, giving her a small smile. It’s already like everything that transpired has been erased; it’s almost like she imagined the entire ordeal. Like her innocence meant nothing to him, despite the pretence of his reactions. That smile is an olive branch, a white flag- she will take it, snap it, burn it. She wants ashes at her fingertips.

“Consider it forgotten,” she says sharply, giving him a wide, scathing smile. “It was hardly memorable in the first place.”

Cassian’s jaw drops; he seems to have forgotten what she’s truly like. Nesta is viciously pleased.

“You can leave now,” she continues, pointedly, eyeing the door with a sneer. “I’m done with you.”

Cassian doesn’t deign to use the door; to do so would be to abandon the last remnants of his dignity. He winnows away without a further word, winking into a cloud of darkness as quickly as he’d appeared.

Nesta finds herself utterly alone, once more.

 

 

They’re back to their old ways, but something has shifted. There’s a harder edge to their banter, and nothing like forgiveness in her eyes. For the most part, Cassian stays away from the House of Wind, and she’s claimed the library as her new abode. She continues to dream, and each new nightmare is just as sexually charged as the last. She wonders if he knows; there’s something in his hazel eyes whenever he’s around, some kind of dark awareness. But he never mentions it, and so Nesta thinks she has, at least, escaped with one small thing.

Does she hate him? Nesta isn’t sure. There are moments when she loathes him; these moments come exclusively in the privacy of her own room, where she curls up and breaks down on her bed. More than that is the sickening longing, the pull inside her when she thinks of him. Some thread constricts her chest, wound tight and ever tighter, an inexplicable string of some emotion Nesta would rather not feel. Following the hate and the pitiful pining comes a short segment of self-loathing- she always does things like this, ends and breaks things, as easy as breathing. Every harsh word she’s ever spat cleaves into her, but no one will ever knows this. Nesta will never let them see.

And then she straightens; she is not wrong, not a thing to hate. She rules her emotions, not the reverse. Nesta never says a thing she doesn’t mean; she’s true to herself, really, which is more than can be said for Cassian. The sequence repeats itself, but Nesta always comes out on top. Vicious. Victorious. Nesta survives and endures; she has always done so and now, as she’s coming to understand, will for a very long time.

One morning she wakes to a headily familiar scent. It used to permeate her every waking moment, cultivated by Elain and swept into their house. Nesta hadn’t thought that she’d miss their gardens, but here in the mountains, even a little greenery couldn’t go amiss. Her first thought is of Feyre; has she returned, glowing with the genial seasonal warmth of the Spring Court? Nesta slips from her pale sheets, barely a hair out of place, and glides to the door. What will she say, if it is Feyre? The last time they saw each other was that twisted, fated day in Hybern. Nesta doesn’t even think she has words for her sister. She’s determined to forget that day; Feyre can only remind her of it. For now, at least.

Nesta opens the door with a caution bred of casual exile and abduction. Saccharine fragrance soaks the hallway, lit with pale light from the high-vaulted windows. Nesta’s nostrils twitch; the scent is a hundred times more complex than anything she ever inhaled as a human. Soil, grass, pollen, petals. A composition of growth, deposited crudely outside her door. Nesta’s eyes fall to the petals strewn on the ground, as though in some macabre parody of a romantic act. There seems to be nothing romantic or even intentional to it; the petals lay in apparent random assemblies, forming an almost-path. They’re a pale pink, bleached silver in the dim light. Nesta steps from her haven and bends down; it’s a peony, she thinks, or once was. Elain has imparted that much of her wisdom, at least. Their appearance is a mystery; Nesta cannot think of anyone who would want to shred a flower in front of her suite. It’s a message, she thinks, the thought accompanied by a chill down her impeccably straight spine.

The unsullied flower takes her longer to find. Forlornly, it lies abandoned in front of Elain’s ajar door, shining and unmarred. A perfect white, pale as her hands. Nesta approaches it and picks it up; it’s one of Elain’s perpetual favourites, a flower she planted in a multitude of carefully crafted rows. It’s a tulip, she knows, and her sister would love it. Cassian’s scent is wreathed around it, clear as day. For a sad, sorry moment, she breathes in deep. The stem makes an ominous crack between her fingers. 

It’s only to be expected, that Cassian would care for and protect Elain. Cherish, even. Elain had always been the perfect, doting daughter; a rose between two thorns. Cassian has only come to realize this a little too late. Nesta drops the flower to the floor, though green stains her fingers. It’s so much easier to wash off than than miasma of his scent.

 

 

When Feyre arrives, she brings war. And it’s hell, a taint upon her skin, a blight that burrows deep. It progresses in fits and starts, in death and almosts. They leave beautiful Velaris and descend into the throes of some dark graceless battle that, over and over again, refuses to die. They fight and they win, but barely; she is sometimes paralyzed by the stress of it all, the constant anticipation of her doom and the destruction of the people around her. Nesta feels so distanced from them, searching the books for answers, as seems to have become her habit. She’s hardly even present, when she watches the fighting, as though from some high imperial peak- until she watches Cassian die, rent and torn down by one fierce swordstroke. 

No one bothered to inform her until, hours later, she’s told that he survived. Feyre gives her faint reassurance when she exits the tent- some bullshit about awake and healing. Still, she could collapse in relief; the menial tasks she’d been doing to provide a flimsy distraction had hardly worked at all. Feyre seems sympathetic, at least, but Mor has developed a vicious personal vendetta against her in a matter of hours. Nesta has always sensed something between them, an old intimate link, far superior to any trivial, fleeting thing she’d had with the Illyrian. Things between them had softened again, worn down in the weight of war. Still, unlike the House of Wind, Mor was always there, some kind of permanent fixture to Cassian’s side. Nesta hated the feeling of inadequacy, vulnerability, and yet here she was feeling it anyway.

“Shouldn’t you be refilling that bucket?” she says, as cold as she’d ever heard her. Nesta pauses for a moment, predator-still. A horde of pathetic retorts came to mind, each weaker than the last, but Nesta has no pressing desire to make a fool of herself. Even more than she already had. It was clear Mor knew something; perhaps she had scented it, as though Cassian was a thing that belonged to her, or maybe he’d told her himself. 

Why don’t you fill the fucking bucket, Mor? You delight in banal activities. She nearly mutters this as she unceremoniously marches away, but a stoic, silent exit seems more appropriate. Behind her, the pair hustle away, Mor emanating a faint reek of anger as she goes. Some balance has been unseated in her chest; Cassian could have died, but she won’t even be welcomed at his sickbed. The bucket slams harshly into her shins, and Nesta winces. The whole camp is an absolute cesspit of mud, but everyone has more important things to worry about. She’s High Fae, honed grace, and yet here she is tripping over piles of muck. Somehow, she expected more.

Immortality just loves its fucking jokes.

 

 

It’s been an hour, and she hates herself. Azriel had to ask. Azriel had to be the one. The Cauldron’s taunts and bewildered her so thoroughly; she hadn’t even paused to contemplate her sister. They’re not unfamiliar to the concept of abduction, but Nesta was there last time, there to hold her hand and usher her through the fear. Now Elain is utterly alone, and the blame of it rests solely on Nesta’s shaking shoulders. Feyre and Azriel have gone, Rhys has disappeared, Mor is gods-know-where. And, though well accustomed to wallowing alone, she just can’t do it tonight.

The tent flap is coarse against her fingers as she pushes it aside. Nesta enters cautiously. She’s not sure what exactly she’ll find, or if anyone will even be in here at all. She needn't have worried. Cassian’s sword lays propped against a battered chest, inexplicably clean and gleaming. The tent is brightly lit, but Cassian lies limply on his bed, eyes closed and body prone. She hesitates again- whatever she’s been through, Cassian still needs his rest. But there’s a chair adjacent to his bed, and she doesn’t need to talk; all she wants, for a little while, is to sit beside someone. She holds her breath and crosses the tent in a few quick strides. Nesta settles beside him, feeling oddly nostalgic, as though she is once again at her mother’s sickbed. Cassian’s breathing is deep, his heartbeat a slow rhythmic tempo. For a moment she’s jealous- how can he sleep so peacefully when the world is going to shit? But she can’t blame him (that burden is hers alone); he’d nearly died, of course, and he should be able to rest for weeks, not a mere matter of hours.

Nesta scrubs at her cheeks- there are no tears, but she feels unwashed and unclean. She feels incredibly awkward, perched on a chair beside a comatose male on his sickbed. It’s almost voyeuristic, watching him like this. “Cassian,” she whispers, finding solace in the voicing of the question, even if she will receive no answer, “what if they don’t come back?” Just as she thought, Cassian doesn’t move to offer consolement. She wishes she could follow him, wherever he’s gone; where even the most devastating of notions can’t touch him. Slowly, delicately, she lies her head on his shoulder. And, so gently she barely even feels it, his arm comes up to encircle her waist, to tether her to reality.

“They’re coming home,” he says, and presses a kiss to her forehead.

For once, she can tolerate Cassian being right.

 

 

The room is dark and cold. It’s been in stasis all these weeks, awaiting her return, or the lack thereof. The four walls, the roof feel alien; as if such quarters were never meant for her, as though she’d expected to be living in various tents for the rest of her life. Nesta knows she should join them, and celebrate, but as she sits delicately on the bed and smooths the dust from covers, the task seems herculean to her. And though she is home, brought back from the brink of ravage and doom, she is lost. Inside herself, in some deep aching capacity she hadn’t thought she’d possessed. When she raises her hands, she can still see the King’s head swaying beneath her fingers, feel his blood drip onto her foot, picture his limp sour snarl and pitiless eyes, darker than ever in death.

Hollow victory is a term Nesta could never understand, but knows it now viciously, the ins and outs and pains of it. To know you have won but to feel, much more keenly, that even more has been lost. Nesta had been wholly prepared to die, to join Cassian and her father, and whoever else who’d fallen on the battlefield. She’d accepted it, but now she must forget this acceptance and return to normality. Somehow. The rest have shrugged off the taint of mortality so easily; she can hear them through the walls, laughing into pints of exorbitantly pricey brandy. Nesta tells herself she’s not really a drinker, anyway. To tell the truth, she’d likely be downing her fourth shot right now had she made all her choices differently.

Rising, Nesta crosses to the windows and pulls open the curtains. The sunshine is radiant, a warmly cathartic light, and she basks in it. Looking down on Velaris has always calmed her; its utter normalcy, complete complacency serves to remind her that the world is not all woe and destruction. Things may still thrive, just as Velaris does, and this will always be the truth. There is hope for her yet, in this elegant eternal body. 

With a hint of a smile on her lips, Nesta turns to join the others.

 

 

  
Epilogue

Nesta knows she needs help when she looks at Elain and Azriel. She’s been doing this dance for so long, gods be damned, and here they are, casually waltzing into a cute little relationship without so much as batting an eye. Lucien has disappeared- presumably with Vassa, although no one really knows- and left them two of them to their sickeningly sweet business. Elain gardens while Azriel suns his wings, and they glance at each other with coy eyes, and Nesta knows. She understands. Romance comes easily to the Archeron sisters, it seems, just not her. So Amren gives her a book- a vivid, graphic, eye-opening book, one which induces a blush every time she reads it. In its final pages she finds a short, very specific note: Just jump him already. 

Nesta would’ve preferred a few personal tips but, well, this is what she’s got.

She requires a certain degree of preparation; a visit to Velaris’ best lingerie boutique, highly recommended by Feyre, and then on to the apothecary for soaps and oils. The wild, rough ends of her hair are trimmed while her nails are buffed and polished. It seems essential, every single inch of it, but it’s a handy device for delaying the inevitable, and for looking good while doing it. Still, every stop is a nail in her coffin, and perhaps is just a form of insurance- ensuring she looks suitable in this skin she’s coming to accept as hers. Not just suitable, but pretty, even. Desirable.

She arrives back to the townhouse, refreshed and...well, clean, with her bundles of shopping. Rhys has given her a handsome salary for her work on the Book, but her bank account must be looking a little grim right now. Checking price tags was not a pastime for the unscrupulous rich. Nesta heads upstairs, pens a note and seals it, then puts her affairs in order. From there she hunts down Azriel, who is- predictably- out in the garden with Elain. She’s yet to pin him down and interrogate his intentions towards her sister, but she has time. Eons and eons of it.

“Azriel,” she calls, in a polite, benign tone that has him looking alarmed. Elain, bent in the dirt, looks up and smiles for a moment. Nesta lowers her voice; it’s hard not to seem conspiratorial, especially with her various packages wrapped discreetly in plain brown paper. “I need to get away for a while. Feyre was telling me there’s a cabin in the woods I can go to?”

Azriel looks cornered. He should, because he doesn’t get a choice in this. “Um, yeah. I can winnow you there if you like…”

“That would be great,” she says immediately, sounding callously impatient. “Is now good for you?”

“I suppose,” he replies slowly, glancing at Elain. Nesta smiles widely and grabs his arm without pretense. Without warning they plunge into a cloud of black, warping through the fabric of the earth in sickening motions Nesta has learned to stomach. Their destination appears out of the ether; a bright, cold mountain with adjoining chalet firmly cloistered in glossy rings of pine. Azriel sets them gently on the small sheltered porch outside the door, the black cloud leaching back into his skin. His wings flutter for a moment as he regathers his strength. As Nesta had expected- and hoped- he’s already about to depart.

“You’ll be alright here by yourself? I’ll tell Feyre, she’ll come to check on you in a couple of days.” If she manages to untangle herself from Rhys, that is.

“I’ll be fine,” Nesta says, waving a dismissive hand, distracted for a moment by her flawless cuticles and shining nails. “I just needed some space.” With that, she places her hand on the doorknob and gives it an experimental twist. It gives under her fingertips. Azriel nods in farewell and winnows away. After watching him disappear- not at all too soon- Nesta carefully balances her packages and toes open the door, revealing the casual opulence of the remote house. Feyre’s touch is evident; everywhere she looks are surfaces swathed in paint, carefully dedicated to the members of the Inner Court and fragments of the seasons. Nesta steps inside, marvelling at her sister’s artwork. Immortality and a decent paint supply have only increased her skills. There will be time to stare and stare later.

Nesta gets to work; she bathes in a tub filled with more oils than water, meticulously shaving her arms and legs with a precise hand. It takes her the better part of an hour. Waiting for her when she climbs out are the most expensive scraps of cloth she’s ever bought. Red lace and golden accents; slightly immodest, she admits, but she hides their impropriety beneath a short silken black robe. She spent an age agonizing over the final details of her outfit, but it looks acceptable at the very least. Nesta prowls out into the open lounge; there’s food atop the kitchen bench, but her stomach is in too many knots to feel even remotely hungry. Rolling back her shoulders, Nesta turns atop sit atop the dining table, registering that the room very much still smells of paint. Now she has to wait.

It doesn’t take long at all.

The swirl of black outside the window appears too swiftly for her to apprehend; in the next instant, the door flies open and he emerges, wings flared and hair adrift on an errant wind. The note is crumpled in his fist, as though he’d read it and instantly winnowed to her, without a thought. With venereal pleasure, Nesta notices her purple underthings hang from his fingers. She bites her lip and he storms inside with a dangerous curl to his upturned mouth.

“Cassian,” she says, as though pleasantly surprised by his arrival. “Nice of you to join me.” She knows they have many, many things to discuss- but now is not the time. She hasn’t been alone with him, in a way they both want, for a long while. They’ve been waltzing along to this gods-damned dance and she doesn’t know the steps; it’s time to stop.

“You sent for me?” His voice is low and sultry and if she’s not careful, she’s going to jump him right on this very table- that would be unsanitary.

“I do believe I have a problem,” she says, lithely detaching herself from the table, turning to walk down the hallway, “and you’re just the male to help me with it.” Without bothering to see if he follows, she makes her way down to the room drenched in Cassian’s scent (and now her perfumed oils, too). Nesta discards her robe as she walks, and the Illyrian stumbles. She has planned this, orchestrated this, dreamed of this moment. From the way his breath hitches, she innately knows- she’s good enough for him.

The march to his room seems like a long one; her hips are sore from their excessive swaying as she reaches the threshold. She reaches the bed and turns. Cassian lingers a few feet from her, jaw clenched and eyes dark. Nesta’s smile is wide and feral. She reaches out and fingers the buttons of his shirt, undoing one as she watches his face. He doesn’t move to stop her.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says, staring at that cimmerian mist in his eyes.

“Agreed,” he murmurs, and brings his hands up to help her. Together, they slid the shirt from his back and she revels in his muscles, the elegant scrolls of tattoos that decorate his skin. Everything is deathly silent, the balance of everything poised on a precipice thin as a blade- and Nesta will knowingly undone all of it, and shatter the precipice itself. Nesta grazes his wings with gentle fingers as the shirt tumbles to the floor. A shuddering breath rocks through him and that unending dark lust shivers in his gaze. The edges of his wings flare and furl closer, beseeching in their intimacy. The membrane is sleek to touch; she presses an open-mouthed kiss to the rim of one, eliciting a guttural groan from Cassian.

“I thought you’d like that,” she murmurs, her breath ghosting across the broad plains of his wing.

“I don’t think you could ever do something I wouldn’t like,” Cassian confesses, as he hoists her into his arms. She wraps her legs around his lower torso and looks down at him for a moment. “I wanted you so badly for weeks, Nesta. I told you I’d take it all back if I could, but I’m a damned liar. If you asked, if it were possible, then I would, but I wouldn’t want to. I don’t regret a thing, except leaving you to think it was your fault.”

She lays her palm against his cheek. “It was perfect, Cassian. I couldn’t understand why you didn’t enjoy it...and it hurt when you told me we should just forget it. I chose it. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” he rasps, and she bends down and he leans up; not a collision, but a soft union, a gentle conspiracy of lips. She feels like a queen, crowned by his arms; something old and eternal and worshipped. Cassian smiles as they kiss.

With surmounting gentleness, he climbs atop the bed and lays them both down. Cassian leans back and stares at her, seraphic light framing his head, setting his wings alight with a red glow. With a weight to his movements, a nostalgic knowing, he unbuckles his trousers and slips them aside, until it’s just them both in their scant underthings. Nesta undoes her brassiere with one hand flung behind her back, picking at the clasp until it falls apart. Cassian picks it up and tosses it away; suddenly it doesn’t matter how much it cost, only that it is now removed from her person. Cassian covers her body with his own, pressing his every scar to her unblemished skin. He brushes a chaste kiss against her breast. No teasing, she wants to say, but his mouth envelopes her nipple before she can even utters the words. One hand is tangled in the black strands of his hair; she places the other against the triumphant arch of his wing and leaves it there to tremble. A rumble rises through his throat, emptying onto the pink flesh of her areola. Nesta can only twitch.

With sound of impatience, Nesta rises up and pushes Cassian onto his back. His wings flare wide before he settles onto the plush mattress, and she climbs astride him without so much as a warning. For a instant, she feels his member pulsate against her, separated by one treacherous layer of satin. Then she moves back, dragging her fingers across his ribs to his hips, gathering the thin weight of his boxers in her hands. She doesn’t pause, dragging the material down and away; it lands somewhere with a distant rustle. He’s already hard; his Illyrian temperance, she supposes, or perhaps all Fae are like this. Maybe it’s just been too long. She grips him with cold fingers; his skin is so feverishly warm it hardly seems to matter. He arches beneath her touch, but she puts one hand against his wing to pin him in place, a devilish smile on her lips.

Amren’s book taught her a few things; the rest she made up for herself.

Either way, when she leans down to taste him, to sample him, Cassian has no complaints. He is musky; not entirely unpleasant, but perhaps an acquired taste. He moans her name, again and again, goading her on. She watches his face as he falls apart, swallowing down the lifeblood of their sensuality and pulling away with a satisfied pop. Cassian props himself against the plump pillows, flushed and breathless, staring at her with something akin to wonder. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling at her with restless hands. She complies, falling into his grasp, and gasps as he lifts her to his mouth. “You’ve worked me up quite the appetite,” he growls, voice muted by the slack afterglow of orgasm. His teeth meet the red lace of her underwear.

“If you rip those,” Nesta says, husky and low, “I’ll murder you in your sleep.”

“I wouldn’t dare, my love,” he rumbles, and slides the lacey lingeries from her hips, dragging his lips down her smooth legs. Cassian flings them away with casual imprudence and leaves the imprint of his smile in the milky skin of her thigh. His mouth glides higher at an achingly slow pace, an indolent teasing prurience. Impulsively, Nesta grabs the headboard with unsteady fingers, as if she needs an anchor. She has always reviled Cassian’s tongue, always countered it and quelled it. As it carves a line through her, into her, Nesta realizes it’s had a better purpose all along. She feels more primal than she ever has in this skin, more raw and ancient than she can comprehend. She has done this for a thousand years and she will do it for a thousand more, a timeless cosmic chronicle. This rhythm echoes her heartbeat, follows the circles of her hips, burns in her blood. The touch of Cassian’s tongue on her imposes an exquisite intensity in her stomach, that building crescendo she seeks. Cassian’s stubble brushes her thighs and sends a tremor up her spine, wrecking her vertebrae by vertebrae.

She’s gasping when she slides away from Cassian’s devilish mouth, wrestling to regain some sliver of self-control. Cassian’s chin is slick, lips delectably swollen. Slowly, every inch a sin, he licks his lips, holding her gaze with an explicit knowing in his eyes. The hunger in her is only growing and, by the end of the night, her pathetic self-control will be in shreds.

Nesta slides back, feeling him between her thighs, that enviable Illyrian stamina already in play. His hand reaches for her hip, encompassing the acute junction of her bones, swallowing it up in his grasp. She wants to kiss him as they join their bodies, and she does; the purest motive of desire she’s ever known. It’s a chaste thing, even as he slides into her hard enough to make her gasp. Cassian sits up, pressing his taut torso to hers, wreathing them beneath the shadows of his widespread wings. He explores her body; she explores his wings, the scars and flaws and quivering panels of membrane. Her touch elicits small sounds that are lost in the symmetry of their mouths.

He breaks away to kiss her throat, a marking, a claiming. Nesta doesn’t care in the least, because she already knows it to be true. “Nesta,” he groans, as she traces a line down a ridged phalange. She’s using her newfound claws to great effect. The sound of skin on skin is loud in the room, but it seems muted, a distanced audio. Nesta feels its approach like a roiling summer storm; at first a mere presence on the horizon, then, in a matter of moments, it clouds the blank sky. Cassian has tipped his head back, throat constricting as he swallows. The storm has caught him too. He murmurs her name, and she is almost too lost to catch the sound. Nesta falls with a sigh. She is filled with heat, life, euphoria. Together, they topple back against the sheets, just basking in the afterglow. Quiet descends into a room of previously resonant transgressions.

They lie in a tangle of legs, curling into the cool respite of the sheets. She meets his gaze, and holds it. There’s much to discuss, she knows, but they have days. Years. With hesitancy, his calloused hand reaches out to her side, scars illuminated in the warm light. Cassian traces something on the flat skin of her stomach, a sequence of words that reverberate in her ribcage. He finishes his sentence, fingers lingering against her, and though his cocky smirk does not grace his lips, it’s still there in his eyes.

“Cassian,” she says, laughing, “I didn’t know you could spell.”


End file.
